


Spontaneity

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Domestic, M/M, Nipple Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: can i bribe someone to write a high school/college au where Dean teases Cas about not being ~spontaneous~ so Cas goes and gets his nipples pierced to show him he can be ~spotaneous~, goddamm</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spontaneity

**Author's Note:**

> For Lena

They’re in bed together on a Thursday afternoon, their frame creaking a little because they picked it up from the street corner, hauling it up their stairs, huffing and puffing and jibing each other about no you’re not pulling hard enough, left, no the other left, but it didn’t matter in the end because they had pushed it into their little bedroom, their shared room in a house with many doors and rooms, wooden legs scraping across a faux wooden floor, putting on their queen sized sheets on their double sized mattress, and then falling onto it, their bodies a heap of limbs and flesh, the too long top strip of cotton tangling up in their legs and ankles until they came, until they collapsed on the bed, rolling away from the wet spots, muscles aching and bellies mellow from sex until Dean nudges Cas with the balls of his foot. “Hey, hey, you should go and change the sheets.”

And Cas does because he doesn’t feel like fighting with Dean, not with the sex-happy feelings still glazing his skin and tongue and mouth, and making everything else inside feel heavy and hot. 

Leaning against the washing machine, warm metal humming against his plaid pajama bottoms, Cas thinks that maybe this is something that defines their time together. Personal space, Dean says when they are on campus quads, and so Cas watches, just lingering on the edge, fingers feather light along the periphery of Dean’s awareness, enough so that Dean’s eyes sway from the object of his attention to Cas, finding him, visibly swallowing when Cas thinks about the things they do together in the dark, the sort of things he’s going to do when he gets home, a promise—and the way Dean’s throat hitches, and he loses the rhythm of his words, repeating the last phrase, faltering. 

And sometimes, Dean will let Cas push the backpack from his shoulders, take him against the wall, pushed hot and tight against each other, with not even a ribbon of space between Cas’s stomach and Dean’s back. 

But other times, Dean says come, and Cas comes in the way Dean requires of him—on his knees or with coffee and pie in the morning or with God’s name on his lips. 

Dean joins him soon, barefoot even though nobody sweeps the floor, and Cas thinks that maybe he should ask why bother washing the sheets if you’re going to just get them dirty again, but he doesn’t. 

“You look grumpy,” Dean said, and his lips are curling in that shit-eating grin of his. 

Cas shakes his head. “I’m not grumpy. I’m thinking.” 

“Why? Dean stretches, leisurely, white cotton tee hitching up his stomach. 

Castiel refuses to look. 

“We’re about to go on spring break, dude. I don’t know about you, but thinking won’t be too high on my priority list. I feel like I’m running on fumes. You gotta take care of your brain like I take care of the impala.” 

“We’re more complicated than cars, Dean,” Cas says. 

Dean purses his lips, hangs his head a little, before shaking his shoulders. “So we’re not talking about the car.” 

“We can if you want,” Cas says. 

“I don’t know, man, but sometimes I feel that we have the same mixed tape on, and we’re just listening to it over and over. I mean, the songs are good,” Dean says, rushing on. “But there’s no—“ and he makes a weird sound with his throat, his stomach flexing, and pelvis tilting up for a brief second. 

“I thought you enjoyed yourself,” Cas says, pushing himself closer against the machine, the hard edge of it digging into his hip bones. 

“I’m not saying I don’t,” Dean says. “I just. I mean. Sometimes a person just needs to turn on the car and hear a surprise.” 

“You want me to surprise you,” Cas says. 

“Well—“ 

“Or would you prefer I use the word spontaneous?” He looks up at Dean then, catches his eye, pins him there to the wall with the unblinking stare that Dean says makes his skin shiver and his throat lump up. “I’m not shy with you, Dean. I’m not afraid to touch you. Remember, Dean—” and he leaves the sentence unfinished, and, the way Dean shifts, Castiel knows he doesn’t have to. 

“I’m not—I’m not saying it’s not good, Cas,” Dean says. 

“Then what are you saying?” 

Dean jumps down from the dryer. “You know what? Forget it. It doesn’t matter. Everything’s fine.” 

But Cas can’t forget it, and while Dean is sleeping, not hugged in close like he usually is, he realizes that Dean thinks he knows Cas. That he’s switched the light on and there are no more shadows to explore, no more rooms to find, no more doors to walk through, no more walls to press up close to and wonder what’s behind them. 

The next day, Cas plays hooky—an action which he is sure will surprise Dean since Cas is nothing but attentive to his duties (but, also, Cas has a thorough knowledge of the subject matter, and his presence would, at best, be superlative in the grand scheme of achieving and retaining an education)—and instead goes to a tattoo parlor down the street. 

He asks for two rings—one for each nipple—surgical steel captive bead rings. He shivers when they swab the areola, nerves tingling with anticipation as the man pinches him with forceps, but he takes a deep breath when the man tells him to, doesn’t move as the ring slides into his flesh. 

They provide him a list with aftercare dos and don’ts, send him on his way. 

He’s glad he remembered to bring one of Dean’s bigger shirts rather than his own smaller ones. Even when he bends to unlock the car door, the material catches a little, and pain crawls up his skin, dragging pleasure after it, and Cas bites his lip with anticipation of Dean, of Dean’s fingers pulling on his rings, coaxing him with a painful tug, teasing him with the pleasure that comes after, and fuck he is covered and surrounded with Dean, the vague soaped up scent of his deodorant, his car, his music. 

He can’t wait for Dean to come as he parks the car, goes up to the room they share, changes his clothes into something that’s his, and sets out the hamburgers and fries he had picked up on the way home from Dean’s favorite place to eat. He can already hear his boots stomping up the stairs, and then Dean’s pushing his way through the door, backpack slumping to the floor with a dull thud. 

“Damn, Cas, you didn’t have to do that, surprise me with dinner and all.” His face is smiling, but his eyes shift around like he’s looking for the catch. 

“I wanted to be—spontaneous—“ and Cas makes sure he lingers over the word. He shrugs out of his sweater so that he’s just in the blue t-shirt that Dean likes him best in, because it’s the blue of his eyes so blue like the ocean and the sky, and maybe Cas wants to remind Dean of this fact, that he’s deeper and broader than any of those. “Please, sit.” And he gestures towards the empty chair, even as he rolls his shoulders, interlocks his fingers together as he stretches lithe and tall like a cat, cloth pressed up close against his tender nipples, but he doesn’t react, just reaches toward the ceiling standing on his tip toes, shirt slipping up above his hips as he twists his waist a little so that Dean can’t see the way his pants are loose, the way they fall down a little towards the v of his legs. 

Dean is already staring, burger half-unwrapped in his hands. But he’s not looking at his face, but at his chest, and as Cas glances casually downwards, he sees the shadow of the rings beneath the thin cloth of the shirt, and smiles, licking his lips with the slip of pink tongue that he knows makes Dean think the dirtiest thoughts that Dean will share with him later maybe, suck here and mouth here and Cas will lick kisses into the hollow of his hips as Dean urges him to. 

Later, maybe. 

“Cas,” Dean says, voice strung tight, “what did you do.” 

“This?” Cas says, tracing a circle around the piercing, not close enough to hurt, but close enough that he feels it, feels the lingering reaching of the pressure. He closes his eyes, hums in his throat, and when he sees again, Dean is so much closer, hands already reaching out, cradling the spurs of his hipbones, mouth hot against his ear as he whispers again, “What did you do?” 

Cas steps neatly away from Dean. “Do you want to see? Alright. Go sit back down. And go eat your dinner. You seem so hungry.” 

“Dammit, Cas.” 

“Good things come to those who wait, Dean,” Cas says. He wonders if Dean will get straight to the point, if he will finish in as many bites, or if he will play with Cas like he’s playing with Dean now. 

He’s not disappointed when Dean smirks across his burger at him, unwraps it carefully with deft fingers, licking his lips and his thumb as he eats, pink mouth sucking obscenely on the straw of his coke, eyes daring Cas, I could be doing this to you right now. 

And Cas leans closer over his side of the table, smoothing the shirt tighter down his chest, the pressure pulling at his rings, making his nipples taught and sore and just waiting to be pulled by the same fingers meticulously picking up each fry and guiding them to his mouth. 

When Dean’s done, when he’s wrapped everything up and thrown it in the trash (which, when has Dean Winchester ever done any such thing, and it makes his stomach flip at the sight of Dean, back towards him, bending over their small kitchen can), he turns, and Cas is already lifting his shirt by its hem, when Dean says, “Nah man. I have to go brush my teeth.” 

And so he goes and Cas trails after, leaning against the door frame as Dean brushes, eyes fixed on Cas’s reflection and, as he finishes, as he’s wiping his mouth on his wrist, Cas pulls off his shirt, and the rings shine bright and hard in the harsh electric light, and Dean can’t stop staring at them as Cas says, “Do you like them?” And his fingers graze against Cas’s pectorals, mouth tracing the rise of his collarbone as he dips closer, closer, until he grazes their silver edge, and Cas jerks hard and hot at the pain, wanting Dean to grip them harder, twist him with his finger, and lave them with his tongue, but he cradles Dean’s face with his palms, pulls him up so they’re staring each other, puts a finger against his lips, and says, “No touching.” And at the look of disappointment, Cas says, “For now. Not until they heal.” 

Instead, they turn on the shower, strip each other’s clothes off, and they wash their bodies with their soap, reading the instructions off the back of the bottle for the solution to care for Cas’s piercings, and Dean’s fingers are tender and careful when Cas gives him permission to roll the ring so that the soap cleanses the hole. And when they’re finished and dripping, Dean helps Cas dry off the nipple ring with a fresh tissue, each soft touch a promise for what will come, that Cas shivers under his hands and Dean just smiles. 

They can’t heal fast enough, in Cas’ opinion, as they fall asleep, Dean holding Cas, fingers splayed around his areola, around his rings, around him.


End file.
